One Of The Good Guys
by McMoni
Summary: Set between episodes 3.13 (4C) and 3.14 (Provenance). John has finally agreed to come back to New York and resume working the Numbers. But some issues still need to be addressed.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's note** : Hi everybody. This is my first venture in this fandom. I've discovered the show at the end of the summer and literally fell in love with it, so...here I am!

Feel free to leave some feedback, if you'd like. I'd love to hear what you think!

The characters and the show obviously don't belong to me. I'm just playing around a bit, and I promise I'll return them unscathed (more or less) when I'm done!

This is a tag to episode 3.13 **4C**. The next (and last) chapter is already written. It'll be posted in a couple of days.

Many thanks to DancingIntheDark85, a wonderful beta reader!

* * *

Never had the library felt so comfortable, so welcoming, Finch thought as they climbed the dimly-lit stairs towards the first floor.

They had just got back from Rome, and he still almost couldn't believe that John had finally accepted to come back. To come _home_.

Finch was exhausted – two intercontinental flights within a couple of days did that to you, not to mention everything that had occurred before said flights – and the geek could only imagine how tired the ex-op must feel. He highly doubted that Reese had got any real sleep in the previous days, or weeks, really. Being passed out or in drunken stupor hardly counted.

"Bear?" Upon entering the library, as they passed near the Malinois' empty bed, John spoke up for the first time since they had left the airport. Whether the prolonged silence was a mere consequence of tiredness or the sign that his employee was struggling to come to terms with all that had transpired, Finch could not tell, but he suspected it was a bit of both. John had been furious with the machine and, vicariously, with Finch himself, Harold knew that. It was obvious that the younger man needed time to sort things out on his own, and Finch was more than willing to give him some space; so, throughout the journey back he had acquiesced to the quietness and refrained from trying to engage the other man in unnecessary conversation.

"I asked Detective Fusco to take care of him," Finch promptly explained, "but he told me that Ms Shaw, ah, _dognapped the fleabag,_ and I'm obviously quoting the Detective here."

At the mention of the burly Detective a curious expression crossed Reese's face, a shadow so fleeting Finch could have missed it, had he not been looking closely at the younger man. He wondered what the reason could be.

He had only a vague idea about what had happened in Colorado between the two men – both had been remarkably reticent about the whole ordeal and Finch himself hadn't been able to listen in, being _otherwise_ _occupied_ with Claypool, so to speak.

It was clear that there had been some kind of physical confrontation, if the matching bruises on both men were anything to go by. The exact reason of the fight, though, remained a mystery, the only vague clue being Detective Fusco's drastically concise recollection, something that went along the lines of ' _we argued, he reiterated his low opinion of me, we ended up spending the night in lockup_ '. Expressed in a more colorful language, maybe, but that had been the gist.

And Harold was pretty sure that John's reaction to Fusco's name had everything to do with _that_ , whatever it was. Yet, looking at the pale, shadowed face of his employee, he chose not to pursue the issue, for the moment at least.

"Any new number, Finch?" The raspy murmur coming from John snapped Finch out of his reverie. The question sounded achingly familiar. Like they were back in their usual routine, in their everyday normalcy. Yet, so much had irreparably changed.

"Yes, Mr Reese," Harold replied, sitting down at his station. " _Eight_. Which is, before you ask, the number of hours of sleep you require, at a minimum, before we could start this conversation again," he stated in what he hoped was a firm and determined and _convincing_ tone.

Unsurprisingly, though, John didn't look particularly thrilled at the idea of being sent to bed. "Finch, it's like - _afternoon_ ," he objected, raising an eyebrow.

"It's 7 p.m., Mr Reese," Finch pointed out, "which can hardly be considered afternoon - not that it really matters. You can sleep here or go to your apartment, if you'd rather. Just, please, _get some sleep._ "

John glared, jaw clenched, eyes ablaze.

Harold stared back, unwavering.

" _John_."

"Fine," John finally relented, almost deflating, and Finch had to stifle a sigh of relief at the avoided confrontation. "I'll take the couch," Reese added as he shrugged off his coat and headed towards the far end of the room where the leather sofa lay.

"A bed would be a much more appropriate choice," Finch firmly suggested, getting up to follow his employee. Though the ex-op acted as if he was fine, Harold knew that he couldn't possibly be a hundred percent yet, his recovery from already serious wounds having been further slowed down by everything that had followed Detective Carter's death. Sleeping on a couch, no matter how comfortable, was hardly going to do him much good.

Maybe his concern was plain to see, or maybe John was even more tired, or hurting, than he let on, because after just a quick glance in Harold's direction, Reese capitulated again without making a fuss. He nodded and wordlessly turned back, heading toward the small, but well-furnished room adjacent to the main area of the Library, Finch still on his wake, took off his suit jacket and neatly draped it over the back of a chair nearby. He looked up at Harold, his gaze resolute, as he finally lowered himself on the bed. "But wake me up right away if we get a new number."

* * *

It hadn't been 8 hours when Reese reemerged from the room, just a meager six and a half, according to Harold's calculations, but Finch figured it was as good a compromise as he would get, so he refrained from commenting.

John _did_ look a little better – less pale and haggard, for starters, even if his eyes still bore a distant, gloomy expression. He had also shaved and changed into the new suit, and he seemed ready to leave. For where, Finch had no idea whatsoever.

The younger man began pacing around the Library, apparently lost in his thoughts. He finally stopped to rummage behind one of the lower left stalls – one of the several caches in the room in which Finch knew small firearms were stashed. The ex-op retrieved a gun and put it in the small of his back, then went back to rummaging. Despite Harold's lifelong awkwardness around weapons, he couldn't help but find it somehow encouraging; first the suit, now the gun – it looked like John was trying to settle back in their old routine.

 _That, or he's planning to go out and kill someone_. Finch cringed at the unwanted thought, and vehemently fended it off.

"Are you feeling better, Mr Reese?" Harold tentatively inquired, trying to gauge the other man's intentions without being too obvious.

"Peachy, Harold," was the completely uninformative answer he got. John got up, holding something else in his hand – a jacket maybe? Finch couldn't tell – and went to retrieve his coat.

 _Then, he is actually going out on some mysterious errand_ , the annoying voice in Finch's head said and, as much as the computer genius wanted to just cast those disturbing thoughts aside, a part of his brain couldn't help but wonder and worry.

What in the world was Reese going to do at 2 in the morning? Was he…leaving again

For a couple of agonizingly long seconds, Finch debated whether to ask Reese where he was going but his worry was probably clearly written all over his face because John, a sardonic smile playing on his lips, spontaneously spoke up, "I'm just going to see Fusco, Harold."

Momentarily nonplussed, Finch stared at him. _Fusco. Oh._ Then he recovered and asked, "and do you need _a gun_ to see the Detective?"

This time, it was John's turn to look baffled. He blinked. "Gun's not for Lionel," he slowly said. "But this is _New York_ , Finch."

"Oh. Yes – Of course," Finch shook his head, annoyed at his own unwarranted paranoia. _Of course_ John would want to carry a gun – nothing surprising about that; on the contrary, now that he thought about it, it was almost obvious. It was second nature to him, an ingrained, necessary habit given his line of work. Come to think of it, the only times Finch had known Reese to be unarmed had been before the beginning of their partnership, when he was living in the streets, and the past couple of weeks, after leaving New York. Both times the younger man had been trying to give up his old life.

Now it was different, wasn't it? Reese was here to stay. No need to worry. Yet, Finch couldn't help but recall all too vividly that the last time an armed Reese had been left free to roam the streets of New York, he had left a trail of death and destruction on his wake.

"But do you think it is a wise idea to visit the Detective at this time of the night, Mr Reese?" Harold finally settled to ask.

"Ah, it'll keep him sharp," Reese deadpanned with a shrug. "Besides, you know what they say, crime never sleeps, so Fusco shouldn't either."

"John," Finch tried to reason with the ex-op, "can't it wait?"

"Listen, it's…" Reese cut him off, but then hesitated, an odd expression crossing his features. An expression Finch couldn't quite identify, a strange mixture of sadness, discomfort. Urgency, almost. "It's-… _important_ , Finch."

"All right," the geek gave in, decision made. He had made a judgement call more than two years ago, deciding to trust the other man, and there was no going back. He reached into a desk drawer and presented him with a new phone and earpiece, that Reese accepted right away with a small smile.

"In case a number comes up before you're back," Harold unnecessarily stated, as the other man expertly slid the ear-bud in his right ear.

"In case a number comes up," John meekly repeated and, nodding Finch his goodbye he left the Library.

To be continued...


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note:** Here we are with the second part.  
Again, many thanks to DancingInTheDark85, for beta-reading this. Her help has been precious!

I hope you all enjoy. Reviews are very appreciated! :D

* * *

 **Chapter 2**

Fusco woke up with a start. Something had roused him, but he had no idea of what. He looked around the room, without really being able to see anything, since it was pitch black. Then, suddenly, a series of loud knocks reverberating through the room explained the reason of his unexpected awakening.

"What the hell," he muttered under his breath fumbling for the lamp switch. A quick glance to the digital clock on his nightstand told him it was past two in the morning.

He grabbed his gun from the nightstand drawer and got up, frowning. Sudden visits in the middle of the night couldn't be good news, could they?

Now completely awake, he made his way towards the front door, his mind swirling with thoughts. It couldn't be someone from HR, right? There was no HR anymore, and, anyway, he doubted that, if it was the case, they would come knocking.

It couldn't be Glasses, either, he reasoned. Whilst the geek wasn't new to sudden requests for assistance in the most inconvenient hours of the day - and night, unfortunately - as far as Fusco knew the man definitely preferred phone calls to house calls.

What if…had something happened to his kid? The thought came unbidden, the horrific memory of what Fusco had at the moment believed to be Lee's last minutes still raw and painful, and he felt his alarm raising of another notch.

Mouth dry, he thrust the door open.

What he didn't expect was to find Mr. Tall, Dark and Deranged in person, casually leaning on the doorframe, looking all neat and pristine and well-groomed in his trademark suit.

Fusco stared, speechless. It was hard to believe that _this_ was the same man that, just a few days prior, had fought him in the pouring rain, drunk and bitter and just… _broken_.

"You took your time, Lionel," Reese placidly commented in his usual whispery tone. "I was beginning to think that you weren't home."

Gone were the shadows under his eyes, the stubble on his cheeks and the rough clothes, and aside from a couple of faded bruises on the cheekbones and some dark, residual shadows in his eyes, there was almost no trace of that desperate man.

"You?" Fusco finally spluttered. "What are you doing here? Do you even know what time is it?" he added, outraged.

"Two fourteen in the morning, to be exact," John answered in that amiable tone he usually used just to rattle Lionel's cage. "I take it you were sleeping," he added with a smirk.

"Of course I was, just like any other _sane_ person in the world would be, at this ungodly hour," Lionel grumbled, but he took a step back and silently signaled the other man to come in. He closed the door and led the way to the not-so-tidy living room. "I thought you were, huh, somewhere in Europe, right?" he asked, collecting a few takeout empty boxes from the couch – last night dinner - to make room for Reese, who leisurely sat down.

"Rome," was the succinct answer. "Been back for less than 8 hours."

Fusco expectantly looked at Reese, waiting for more, but it was soon clear that the other man, who was now leafing through a magazine he had picked up from the coffee table, had no intention to elaborate further. The Detective sighed, plopping down on an armchair.  
"And why are you _here_?" he prompted, his question deliberately ambiguous. He left it to John to decide what _here_ meant. Any explanation Reese was willing to give, whether it was about his unexpected visit or his plans for the near future, Lionel could settle on.

"Oh, I just thought I drop by and say hi," Reese said, without looking up. _Yeah, so much for an explanation_.

"At this time of the night?" Lionel was rapidly losing his patience. "I mean, you basically woke up the entire building, you woke _me_ up just so I could let you in and you could _say_ _hi_?!" he scoffed.

"Well, I actually considered letting myself in on my own and waiting for you to wake up, but from what I've been told, people don't usually like B&E," John shrugged, still not making eye contact with the Detective.

Fusco seethed. "What the hell -"

"Anyway, it wasn't just to say hi," Reese added, lifting his hand in a placating gesture. "I wanted to give you something."

"And I guess it couldn't wait for tomorrow morning," Lionel sighed, exasperated. "So, what is it?"

John handed him the neatly folded black garment he was holding. Fusco shrugged it open and immediately recognized it. It was one of the SWAT jackets they had stolen and donned before getting inside the bank to save Finch and Shaw and the other weird guy.

He looked up raising a questioning eyebrow. For the life of him, he could not comprehend what this was about. Reading Reese was already a challenging task on normal days, let alone now, after all that had transpired during the last few weeks. After Carter's death, after Colorado, after Reese leaving, coming back just to leave again soon after, after the harsh words and the fight and _everything_ …after all of that, Mr. Sunshine just dropped by in the middle of the night to give him _a jacket_?

"You forgot it in Finch's car," Reese explained as it was obvious, propping his feet on the coffee table, his eyes lazily roaming around the room. "I thought you might want it back." He was the picture of composure, of relax, but Fusco wasn't fooled. He was sure that the turmoil, the darkness, the _abyss_ he had witnessed in Reese's troubled eyes just a few days back had still to be lurking somewhere in the shadows. Nobody could heal that fast, put the shattered pieces back together as if nothing had been broken, not even Reese.

Maybe, _especially_ not Reese.

Yet, the ex-op was _here_ now, and not drinking himself into oblivion in a godforsaken bar or unleashing death and havoc in a random country half way around the world. It had to mean something, right?

Fusco snorted, shaking his head. His patience was wearing thin. Sure, he was a Detective and while solving puzzles could be considered an activity closely related to his job, he didn't have the slightest intention of spending the night trying to figure out Mr. Sunshine.  
He waved a hand in the direction of the jacket. "I didn't _forget_ it anywhere, since it's not mine to begin with. We stole 'em, remember?"

"Confiscated. Sounds better," Reese deadpanned.

"Yeah, whatever. Listen, Wonderboy, as much as I'd like to stay up and discuss semantic subtleties with you, I have a day job," Lionel finally snapped, "so if you –"

"It might come in handy," John cut him off, unperturbed by the cop's outburst. He finally, _finally_ locked eyes with Fusco and went on, "you're one of the good guys, Lionel, and you should be prepared for any possible contingency."

And finally, Lionel understood what this was about.

 _You're one of the good guys._

Just like that.

Seven words thrown at him so matter-of-factly, as if they stated the obvious. Spoken by the very same man that only a few days back had declared without a second thought that Fusco was bound to go back being a _corrupt piece of garbage_ one day or another. That it was his unavoidable fate.

Lionel wasn't completely sure whether the jacket was a peace offering, an apology or a thank-you – probably something in between. A nice gesture, anyway, something he wouldn't have expected from the ex – op. But then again, for some inexplicable reason, Fusco found out he was not so surprised, either.

"One of the good guys, huh?" He slowly repeated, echoing Reese's own choice of words.

"Yes, Lionel," John confirmed, his tone serious and for once lacking the usual sneer. His intense gaze bore into the Detective's eyes as he went on, "and, just to be clear... that time in Oyster Bay, I didn't choose you because you were the _only_ option. I picked you because you were the _right_ option."

Again, Fusco found himself at a loss for words.

Not that he didn't appreciate being unexpectedly complimented by Mr. Deadly in person, but this was basically uncharted territory – their relationship usually consisting of to-do lists and snarky remarks coming from the ex-op.

Heart- to- heart talks, pleasantries, apologies and thank-you's were just not Reese's forte. If the past two years and a half hadn't been evidence enough, their recent stint in Colorado had abundantly made it clear, when Lionel's heartfelt speech had simply been stonewalled, belittled even, met by complete indifference.

And now… _this_.

"Uhm, thanks?" Fusco finally stammered. "For the jacket and –"

"By the way," John cut him off again, apparently choosing to ignore both what Fusco was saying and implying. "The balaclava is in the left pocket, but I couldn't find the gas mask anywhere. I'm pretty sure Shaw took it, though, so maybe you could ask her," he added as an afterthought.

"Sure, and get shot in the process," Lionel scoffed. "I'll settle for jacket and ski mask."

The ex -op nimbly got up, ready to leave. "Well, then I'll leave you to your beauty sleep, Lionel. We don't want the NYPD's finest nothing less than well-rested, do we?"

The mocking tone was back, but in a burst of tolerance born out of the desire for a return to normalcy, Fusco found himself unexpectedly welcoming it.

Before the cop could even begin to summon the energy to get up from the armchair, Reese was already opening the front door and Lionel decided to let him do the honors.

The door slid closed with a muffled noise – bidding goodbye evidently not an option in Reese's book - and Fusco was alone again. He briefly considered the prospect of sleeping in the armchair – the trip back to the bedroom seemed unbelievably long and exhausting – but he could almost feel his back twinge at the mere thought.

He got up with a sigh and headed back to bed, steps heavy with fatigue. On his way to the bedroom he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the full-length mirror and he had to bite back a laugh. Barefoot, in his undershirt, SWAT jacket and balaclava in one hand, gun in the other, hair in complete disarray - he was quite a sight. Yet, not one he really disliked.

Oh, Fusco was well aware that he did not look even remotely intimidating, deadly and harder-than-nails as Reese did, and, honestly, he knew he never would. And it wasn't a matter of height, or build, or muscles - all traits that Reese had in abundance and Fusco lacked. No, there was much more to it. A confidence, an innate stance that couldn't be taught. Either you had them or you didn't – and Lionel, sadly, did not.

Nevertheless, the man that stared back at him from the mirror these days was not the same that Fusco used to see a couple of years back. He was done with the disgruntled, unprincipled, dirty-handed version of himself. _That_ Detective Fusco had made way for an improved man – not perfect, not in the slightest. But a new Fusco nonetheless, a cop and a man that he liked better. Someone who did the right thing, even if it didn't pay. Someone who could be of help. Someone his kid could be proud of – hell, someone _he_ _himself_ was proud of.

He was one of the good guys, after all.

He nodded at his reflex, a small, contented smile gracing his lips, and went to bed.


End file.
